


Honey, Just Put Your Sweet Lips on My Lips, We Should Just Kiss Like Real People Do.

by quentincoldwaters, saviorrswan



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, M/M, Multi, Quentin Coldwater Lives, bisexual!julia wicker, bisexual!margo hanson, bisexual!quentin coldwater, canon queliot, gay!eliot waugh, lesbian!alice quinn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23099254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quentincoldwaters/pseuds/quentincoldwaters, https://archiveofourown.org/users/saviorrswan/pseuds/saviorrswan
Summary: Quentin Coldwater finds himself in a mysterious elite academy for magical training. Eliot Waugh, his eccentric guide, may hold the secret to what Quentin has been asking for so long - who really is Quentin Makepeace Coldwater? He feels different with him, different to how he's felt with anyone else, even his best friend, Julia Wicker. Julia, too, has been recruited, and quickly enthralled with the world of magic and the other students themselves - one enigmatic dark-haired girl in particular.Though Brakebills seems like a paradise, the heart of the magical world is corrupted, and threatens all they begin to love.Can these kids save their world, even though they can barely save themselves?//basically The Magic Show, but better. quentin lives and they're all the gay messes we deserve. !!slow burn!! written with my best friend alex (@kingmargo)! so go follow her uwu//
Relationships: Kady Orloff-Diaz/Julia Wicker, Queliot - Relationship, Quentin Coldwater & Alice Quinn, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Wickoff - Relationship
Comments: 10
Kudos: 26





	1. It Was Not Your Fault But Mine // It Was Your Heart On The Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The weirdest school you've ever seen

A chilling breeze whipped through the musty air in the alley, settling in the bones of the awkward young man. A plethora of worn pages, ripped at the edges and crumpled, flew past him. They rode the wind, flying into the crumbling brick walls and into his face, bouncing off as quickly as they arrived. At the end of the alley, the pages soared into the hedges. Unlike the rest of the alley, the hedges were vivid and bold, a dazzling green that seemed so out of place in the dingy backstreet. The last few pages disappeared amongst the flashing fronds, leaving the man completely alone in the street, save for the sliver of moon that lit the evening sky.

*** 

Quentin Coldwater broke through the bushes, twigs scratching his face and leaves poking him in every direction. Though dusk had just begun as he entered, the sun was shining and the grass iridescent. The rays warmed his back, even though he was shivering just moments ago. Flamboyantly dressed students around his age, just eighteen, milled around the field, leaning against trees or standing in small groups.

He shuffled through the grass, an amazed expression upon his pale face, brown eyes glittering. His hair, a similar shade to his eyes, was tied up in a loose bun, strands escaping and curling about his shoulders. A dark blue sweater hugged his scrawny frame, the grey collar of a button down peeking above the neckline. His brown satchel hung from his skinny shoulders, banging against his hip.

A vast building loomed in the distance. The brick was a deep scarlet, complimented by startlingly white pillars and window frames. A wide marble wall in the same bright white stood just in front of the doors. It proclaimed the words "Brakebills University '' in large letters. A man, perhaps a year older than Quentin, laid upon it. His legs created a triangle with the top of the wall, dangling in a somehow elegant fashion. Dark curls piled upon his head, draping down onto his forehead, and light stubble graced his sharp jawline. Tight white pants clung to him, matching perfectly with his white button down and decorative beige vest. The man looked like he belonged on the sign, like a statue. Quentin would've believed him to be one, but he was carelessly blowing rings of cigarette smoke into the otherwise sweet air.

The most gorgeous woman Quentin had ever seen leaned against the man in the same position. Her skin was a light brown, complimenting her dark brown eyes in a beautiful fashion. Though Quentin was still several feet away, he could see the thousands of shades that danced around her pupil, like copper in honey, like earth after rain. An auburn blouse wrapped her lithe frame, and ornamental butterflies adorned the collar. A skirt the same shade as Quentin's shirt hugged her shapely legs, leading to the impossibly tall high heels that tapped against the marble. 

In a word, the pair were enchanting.

"Quentin Coldwater?" The man asked him, disdain lacing his words. He said his name, like it was ridiculous. He said it with derision, and leaped from the stone sign, landing perfectly on his feet. Standing a few inches from him, his breath graced his face. The stranger’s eyes slowly enveloped him; going up and down Q's frame. His eyes were a hazel green, a ring of copper surrounding the black iris, which slowly transformed into a rich green. Quentin was frozen, transfixed by his eyes. It didn't help that the sun was shimmering off them, making them look even more vibrant and captivating. It was safe to say Quentin was enthralled with, well, his eyes. 

"Uh... yeah?" Q's mind was going through a restart, trying his best to understand and process the things he was seeing - and feeling. Eliot took a drag of his cigarette, making sure Quentin was watching. He had almost completely forgotten about his gorgeous counterpart, who was still lazily leaning on the sign. She seemed above their conversation, gazing at the blue sky that was decorated with big, puffy clouds. Quentin didn’t mind, though, he was still transfixed with the ethereal man in front of him. 

“Eliot Waugh, at your service.” He swept into a deep bow, sarcasm radiating off of him, much like his cigarette smoke. A smirk cracked his porcelain face, eyes glittering with humour.  
“You’re late, you know. For someone with the name ‘Quentin Coldwater’ I’d expect some more punctuation,” His voice was teasing, as was his expression. Eliot gave Quentin one more glance over, seemingly just to get a rise out of the man in front of him.  
Quentin blushed in response. Though this boy was barely older than him, he seemed the closest thing to an authority figure, and he had an uncontrollable need to please those above him.  
“S-sorry..” He concentrated on the ground, staring intently at the grass, as if it were a new comic book, or his first edition of Fillory and Further.  
“Follow me.” His voice was gravelly, and, Quentin thought, almost... Sexy? His blush deepened, almost as red as the bricks of the building.

Eliot strode off in the direction of the entrance, leaving Quentin stumbling after him, like a baby deer. 

A loud thud pulled Margo from her thoughts. She fixed her gaze on the pile of brown ringlets and maroon wool that appeared on the ground in front of her. Margo unfolded a decorative card from her skirt pocket and scanned it.  
“Julia Wicker?” she said, her eyebrows raised in a mix of discontempt and surprise. “Of course El got the cute, awkward nerd and I got the goddamn kid who just fell from the sky,” Margo thought. 

Julia quickly stood up, brushing off her sweater and arranging her curls. Pink tinged her cheeks. She just had to make a fool of herself infront of this goddess.  
“...Present?” She mumbled, raising her hand in a half-joking half-serious manner.  
“Kid, you look like you just landed in motherfuckin’ Hogwarts, or some shit. This is Brakebills, babes.” Her voice was sultry and smooth.  
“And what’s Brakebills, babes?” Julia’s tone was laced with mockery. Margo squinted at the girl, jumping down from the sign, similarly to Eliot. Margo made sure to get right in Julia’s face, to truly gauge Julia Wicker in her entirety. Julia didn’t budge, even though Margo’s forehead was about to touch her own. Margo decided that if Julia Wicker could handle a stare down from her, she could handle Brakebills.

“Alright then. This way, Wicker.” Margo clapped her hands, her bracelets shaking with the motion. Julia followed suit, struggling to keep up with Margo, despite the fact Margo was wearing three-inch stilettos.


	2. I really fucked it up this time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hardest Exam Of Your Life.

Eliot led Quentin down a maze of corridors with endless polished wood floor. Each wall had stained glass windows showing scenes of various battles that looked like scenes ripped straight from Harry Potter - all green sparks and flowing capes. Thick curtains trailed to the floor, pulled back with cords to let the afternoon sun. Mahogany bookshelves overflowing with leather-bound books coated in dust. 

"Well, this is where I leave you." Eliot paused, turning around to face Q head on. "I hope you pass, bye." Eliot gave him a sweet smile before practically pushing him through the doors.

Quentin couldn't really tell if his eccentric new best friend was being genuine. Either way, he stumbled into the room. The walls were empty, save for several more sets of doors and a huge navy banner emblazoned with a bee, and painted a dull beige. Speckled grey carpet lined the floor, underneath many rows of desks, like the most uninteresting classroom in the world. It seemed a world away from the idyllic field that Quentin had just come from.

"Late!" A deep, booming voice shouted. Quentin frantically looked for the origin of the noise, spotting a tall man standing among a bunch of sitting 20-somethings. Quentin was frozen in place, staring at the obvious authority figure. He wore a black suit, with a vermilion tie, and polished dress shoes that reflected any light that bounced against them. His skin was a rich, umber brown,the only imperfection on his face were those that came with aging. 

"Uh, uhm..." He stuttered. His eyes darted around the room, praying to find an open spot before the man in front started yelling at him again. 

The only empty chair was in the far corner of the room, right at the back. Quentin slipped into it with a sense of awkwardness. His neighbour was bronze-skinned, like the delicate leaves that drift off trees in autumn, and tall. He was wearing nothing but a buttoned scarlet vest and a blue scarf, his arms decorated with too many bracelets to be comfortable. Intricate tattoos graced his toned biceps. Thick facial hair clung to his face, making him look more menacing than he probably was. As soon as Quentin slunk onto the fold-out chair, he grabbed both sides of his dark sweater with the opposite hand and tried to yank it off. Quentin being Quentin, it got stuck at his neck, and he spent far too long with his elbows in the face of the bizarrely dressed man to his right. 

“Late!” the man shouted, getting Quentin’s attention. He turned towards the doors he had just walked through and saw Julia standing there, wide-eyed. She was wearing the same outfit from their Yale interview, which was mere hours ago, but seemed a lifetime ago. Her eyes caught Q’s and they tried to give each other a reassuring nod, but their nervousness overpowered them. “Get her a seat, please.” The man seemed tired with this, his voice tapering off towards the end. 

Someone ran into the room, struggling to carry a clunky, pull out chair. They placed it near the table across from where Quentin was sitting. Julia cautiously made her way over to the chair, which was decorated with bright pink, frilly flowers. Julia sat down, feeling incredibly out of place and embarrassed, putting Quentin into the back of her mind. 

Then, the well-dressed man at the front began talking again.

“Welcome. You may address me as Dean. I know you have questions… and they will be answered in time...But for now, your only job is to pass the examination before you,” The Dean paused, inhaling deeply, his dark brown eyes sweeping the room. “Begin!” He announced, grabbing the hourglass sitting before him and turning it so that the sand began to fall. 

Quentin scrambled around to find a pen, and opened the paper. Tests, tests, tests… He was always good at tests in high school, coming top of his class with ease. This exam, however, was world away from AP History. For a start, the words rearranged themselves every few seconds. Most of the pages were diagrams of hands in strange passages, or long passages of text in a language similar to Shakespearean. The second half of the paper was full of complex math - algebraic proofs and linear equations. Quentin worked diligently until his hand cramped. He paused and looked up; a smattering of desks were empty. He felt the familiar rise of anxiety in his chest.  _ Was he taking too long? Were they going to kick him out there and then?  _ He shook it off, and carried on. All he could think about was that his ass hurt, and that he had definitely failed this exam.

When he finally finished, the room was almost empty, only him and several other students still scribbling. Quentin sighed, an air of exasperation and victory around him. He stumbled to the platform at the front, tripping over his own feet, and dumped his paper on the pile. As he left, hr walked straight into Eliot, his guide - if he could be called that. 

“Hello, possible first year,” he said, his voice extremely nonchalant.

“Uh.. hi, uhm, Eliot.” He paused and uttered another deep sigh. “What do I do now? You here to take me to another butt-aching exam?”

“You answered the exam with your ass?” Eliot looked appalled, but that expression only lasted a moment before he took a drag of his cigarette.

“No, I- F-forget it. Where am I going now?”

Quentin’s face was even paler than before, if that were possible, and he was sure at least  _ some _ of his hair was more grey than brown now.

“Follow me, initiate.” Eliot smiled mysteriously. It was the first real show of emotion Quentin had seen from Eliot, which was intriguing, yet frightening all the same. His smile was pretty, too pretty for a man, but Quentin wasn’t sure if he trusted it.. Eliot was handsome, no doubt about that, but he struck Quentin as an aloof jackass who’s best friend was the bottle of vodka he kept under his pillow. He still had no trouble in making Quentin blush, though - which he found disgustingly embarrassing. 

Quentin expected another ten minutes of boring mahogany mazes, but Eliot merely shoved him into another room after only several corridors.

“Not again-” Quentin muttered, but was met with the slam of the door in his face. He turned to face the front of the room. Dean Fogg was standing in the centre, a simple desk and a deck of cards in front of him.  _ How did he get in here so quickly… he was just out there? What the fuck is up with this place? _

“Hello, Mr Coldwater. Are you ready to show us what you can do?”


	3. Didn't I My Dear?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do Some Goddamn Magic.

Four tall lamps dimly lit the room at either side of Quentin and behind the desk. The wall to his right was almost entirely glass, but the exam must've lasted longer than he realised, as the sun was now setting. Deep orange rays lazily trickled across the horizon, mingling with the remnants of the afternoon blue sky, giving way to the hazy dark of the night. Behind Dean Fogg and his desk was a large dartboard, about the size of a small human. Instead of numbers, it had Latin phrases written in each segment. Nondescript art in dark frames hung on the grey walls, looking like they were directly lifted from the most uninteresting hotel ever. The floor was a deep chestnut brown, and polished to an offensive shine. Quentin looked up, but could not meet the Dean's eyes.

So, instead Quentin stared at the deck of cards, feeling drawn to them .He glanced at them. They were decorated in shades of grey and scarlet, with pictures of kings and queens that looked like they had seen better days. Strangely, some of them were dotted with dried blood. He’s done amateur magic before, simple things with coins and sleight of hand. Cards were his specialty and somehow these people knew that. He made his way to the desk, feeling eyes watching his every breath. The deck felt weightless in his hand, the familiar texture of paper and plastic, smooth as he slid his fingers over them. Quentin began to shuffle them, the cards quickly filing themselves into a random order. He coughed a bit, a sniffle following, praying that may ease the anxiety exponentially rising in his chest. He glanced up at them, a look of boredom with a twinge of disappointment on their features. 

Quentin began one of the first magic tricks he’s ever learned, flinging a card into the air and catching it with the other hand. “No…. magic. Real magic.” The Dean was getting increasingly impatient with him.  _ What the hell... real magic? I can barely do fucking fake magic.  _

“Uh… okay,” He whispered, his anxiety making his fingertips tingle. He attempted to shuffle the deck once again, only to fumble. The cards went flying, landing in a pile all over the floor. Quentin hunched over, trying to pick them up as quick as he could. 

“Quentin,” The Dean Fogg spoke, the sound of his chair sliding against the floor alerting Quentin to his movement. He looked up at the older man, his doe eyes wide. “Do you like this place? You have a gut feeling that it’s something special.” Quentin furrowed his brow, gulping a bit. He couldn’t really tell what he was feeling, there was too much to process, to try to understand. “Do you want to go back to Columbia?” 

He knew the answer to that. No matter what this place was, he knew he didn’t want to go back to his old life. He wanted to try something different, something that could maybe change the numbness and dreariness that he carried with him out there. The Dean began to circle him, his words hitting harder and harder. 

“I know you feel alone. Unwanted. Ostracized…” Quentin swallowed hard, shutting his eyes for a moment, the sinking feeling he’s learned to deal with making its way into his gut. “You aren’t as alone as you think, but to truly feel as if you belong, you have to try.” His words were stern and even though Quentin wasn’t looking at the Dean, he could feel the intensity coming off him in waves. 

“How?” He murmured, his throat tight, his eyes starting to gloss over. 

“Do some goddamn magic!” The Dean screamed, his voice reverberated through Quentin’s skull. Anger began to build within Quentin, red hot, fiery rage. It was the feeling of not being good enough, but still wanting to prove that you could be good enough squeezed his heart. 

Quentin let out a guttural scream, encapsulating some of the pain he’s had to deal with, the pain his own mind has inflicted upon him his entire life. The cards he was holding in his hands flew away, along with the cards on the ground. They began floating around him, twinkling in the air. 

“Oh… oh, oh my god.” His breath was sporadic, his heart racing a mile a minute. The cards were still suspended, twirling in small circles around one another. His mind refused to process what he was seeing, but he immediately knew that magic was real. It was right in front of him and he was the one doing this. He almost laughed, but before he could do anything more the battered cards began to dart around, it was an ordered chaos. “Holy fucking shit,  _ I’m  _ doing this,” His voice was exasperated, his hand trembling in front of him.

The cards flew to form a castle, a beautiful castle with a triangle base, spires, and moving elements. He’s built this castle before, but it was painstaking work, moving each card with his hand, praying to whatever deity was listening that it wouldn’t topple over. Now, however, magic built the castle. His magic. 

He could feel his breath become shorter and the room began to spin a little bit. He didn’t even realize he was swaying back and forth until it was too late; Quentin had passed out. 

***

Quentin woke up in an unfamiliar bed, with no memory of getting there, or even going to sleep at all. His mind was swimming with the ghosts of his already-forgotten dreams. He was still in his clothes, which was good - no one had undressed him, at least. A faded blanket covered him. Blinking sleep out of his eyes, he sat up and yawned. The deck of cards, emblazoned with the Brakebills logo, sat on the bedside table, as if they were taunting him. There was a note next to them. It read:

**_"Dear Mr Coldwater,_ **

**_You are summoned to have breakfast with Dean Fogg in_ **

**_Room 302 at your earliest convenience. By that, we mean 9am sharp._ **

**_Good day."_ **

Sighing, he glanced at his watch. 9.05.

"Shit!" Quentin muttered, flying out of bed. His shirt was creased and his jeans rumbled. Tying his shoes as he ran, he hightailed it down the stairs. Somehow, he knew where Room 302 was. He rapped on the door, wishing he'd gone to the bathroom, or at least stopped for a mint.

It swung open of its own accord, leading to the type of carpet that one would find in their grandma's bedroom. This room, however, was a little crazier than a grandma's bedroom. A shelf filled with ancient tomes lined one wall, looking like it belonged in a museum. Numerous sets of deer antlers that Quentin hoped weren't real were mounted everywhere - on the wall, on shelves, on the backs of chairs. A side table covered with bottles of alcohol and two glasses stood in one corner, the only thing not covered in a layer of thick dust. At the back of the room, there were more globes than he had ever seen. They were all lit up and spinning at different speeds. Some had coloured dots lit seemingly random countries.

The dean sat behind yet another mahogany desk. Two trays of breakfast food sat in front of him, piled high with toast, little pots of jam, trays of butter, a jar of honey, bowls of fruit, and a jug of orange juice bigger than Quentin's head. This looked more like a breakfast for twenty, not two. He briefly wondered if anyone else would join them, but saw only one free seat. Still not meeting the Dean’s stone gaze, Quentin slipped onto the chair, hoping the antlers wouldn’t poke his back.

“Magic is real,” The Dean spoke, his voice unconcerned. Quentin nodded slightly, his lips curling upwards. “I suppose you’ve figured that one out already… you even passed out because of it,” The Dean chuckled, the laugh deep and lighthearted. 

“Uh, yeah…” Quentin’s cheeks reddened slightly. The embarrassment passed quickly, replaced by a wave of jubilation and ardent curiosity. 

“Well, we offer a three-year program, graduate level studies and the program begins immediately.” The Dean spoke with a fervor, the words flying out his mouth. Quentin blinked a couple times, his eyes open as wide as they possibly could be. 

“Uhm, how did you find me?” It was the first question he had readily available and it was the only thing Quentin could spit out without sounding like a bumbling idiot. He crossed his arms, trying to give off the impression that he meant business, that he was stern. 

“Ah, yes. We use globes. They sense magic, but it’s not always accurate. That is why you had to go through… what did you call it? A butt-aching exam?” Quentin smiled awkwardly, kicking himself for ever saying  _ that _ out loud. He turned to look at the globes themselves. Each one, he noticed now, was slightly different. They were all lit with the same glow, but it was as if they showed different seas and countries from this one - different worlds. One of them was almost entirely covered in clouds, with only patches of grey land in between. Another was all ocean, save for several tiny islands. The one at the top looked startlingly similar to the map from the  _ Fillory _ books that Quentin loved so much - all high hills and expansive lakes, with a huge castle and several small towns.

The Dean went on to explain all the details that studying at Brakebills would entail. From the courses all the way to the rooms they were held in. Dean Fogg, after his monologue, pulled out a piece of paper. It was detailed with words that Quentin didn’t even care to read. He wanted to be here. He wanted to belong here. He was gonna sign whatever piece of paper, even if it was selling his soul to the devil, to belong here. So, he clicked the pen he was holding and began to write. 

“I know you have a history with depression,” Fogg began, his voice more cautious. Quentin paused, looking up at him with weary eyes. “I don’t exactly know what that’s been like for you. I do know one thing though… Magic won’t fix you.” Quentin just continued to stare at him, the words flowing through one ear and out the other. “Which is why I have your medication.” The Dean opened the little drawer attached to his deck and plopped Quentin’s pills in front of him. 

Quentin tilted his head, looking at them in a whole new light. He felt disconnected from them, but in a good way. Despite how excited he was right now, he knew himself. He knew his depression. It would always try to come back. So, he grabbed the bottle and tucked it into his pocket. It didn’t feel like a weight in his pants, like it used to, he felt as if it was there to help him. It didn’t make him feel like such a burden; it was a nice shift. 

“Well, that’ll be all for now. You better go get settled in,” The Dean smiled, flicking his fingers towards the door. Quentin spun around, seeing the door open on its own. Quentin gave him one last nod and smile before walking back to the room he woke up in. 

He attempted to replicate Fogg’s motion, hopefully opening the door with his mind, to no avail. “Guess that takes work,” He muttered, grasping the handle and opening it himself. What he saw took him off-guard. It was the hot guy he sat next to during the exam; he was sitting on the bed opposite Quentin's, with his arms crossed.

“Uh… are you my roommate?” 


End file.
